


Sorrow and Joy

by shadoedseptmbr



Series: Tales from the Shelterverse [2]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, Roses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 14:05:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadoedseptmbr/pseuds/shadoedseptmbr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Another character study, from between Shelter and Steal Away Home.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Sorrow and Joy

**Author's Note:**

> Another character study, from between Shelter and Steal Away Home.

The first thing Deirdre noted about him after his eyes and his solid presence was the odd delicate ring he wore, vines and an enamelled rose.

 

In their brief, polite courtship she came to know him as protective and that he always had roses in his office. Red and fragrant, though he never bothered with such frivolities elsewhere.

 

She put it down to shock at her changed circumstances that it took her until he sat her down on a small bench in the newly replanted rose garden to notice a theme. She wasn't usually slow.

 

Roses were for Her. The Hero. 

 

And when he told her how he'd loved Her (and yes she knew herself foolish for always capitalizing it) and that he didn't know if he could ever be more than a friend and a husband, what could she say? She'd given her heart to a dead man too, though his face had already grown a little indistinct. Alistair chased her angry father away with one shrug, as though he were naught but a nuisance instead of the once doting man who'd sent her love to the front. 

 

He was her hero.

 

He was good and gentle and accepted her help when she had a skill he did not, as if that were normal. And meeting a few of his companions, apparently it was. The Hero had been endlessly competent and Alistair had been Her second. Why could a woman not be his equal and his superior? He learned her skills of state easily, though.

 

And he never spoke of Her to Deirdre, unless it was some impersonal bit of history of the Fifth Blight. This is where Lyna met Zevran, he told her once as they passed a random crossroads during a tour. 

 

The assassin who occasionally appeared to check on Alistair. She'd asked the elf once why at a joust on the third anniversary. And he'd told her. "Because he was Hers." And she could tell he capitalized it too, though he was charming and wicked and could make Alistair behave similarly. Though not that day.

 

He never celebrated the Blight's defeat. He set her in charge of all the celebrations. He attended them all, briefly. Acknowledged her work and thanked her. Made her glow and the audience smile. And then disappeared. To the rose garden, she knew, having followed him once. 

 

It was at the final Ball that year, that she was reintroduced to Teryn Cousland. Fergus. Who bore his own wounds from the Blight. She had not meant to fall in love with Brendan, who died. Nor with Alistair who was affectionate and gentle, if not all consuming. She did intend to fall in love with Fergus. 

 

Alistair had told her he might not be able to have an heir. So, in the back of her mind she had been trying to decide who would give him the best heir. Even if it came to light that it wasn't Alistair's, a Cousland was a good strong contender. 

 

That's what she told Alistair when she asked him if he would hate her for going to another, though she did not mention the name. Fergus was passionate, if not tender. He used his strength. Alistair had explained once that he couldn't. He was afraid to hurt her and he was stronger than he looked and forgetful in his extremis. He smiled and told her he had no room to be jealous.

He usually went to Vigil's Keep a few times a year. Meridan, the Orlesian Commander of the Grey was a good friend and he always returned from her company with a bounce. And a bruise or two of varying sizes, though the woman was a mage. There were others, she knew. Shield maidens and soldiers, never whores or careless nobles. And he had some fascination with the exploits of a Ferelden refugee gone to the Marches and made good, though he'd not met her.

She did not fall in love with Fergus. Even when Alistair had indicated he would let her go to be with her lover. He had never asked who. He had sent her on an envoy or two to Highever. He was merry, but he wasn't stupid. 

Alistair was forgetful one night. It was a good night. Though she did bruise a bit. And possibly strained her ribs. Her knee was a little swollen. And maybe that last time or two had been a touch much. 

And then he said he needed to go on a journey. This business with Orlais. She thought he was running from his forgetful passion. But he asked her if she would care to come.

 

She said no. 

 

And regretted it the day he left, leaving her in charge. She was busier than she expected. And it made her tired and then ill. And then Wynne came to see Alistair and smiled and said, how far along?

 

He came back looking tired and happy and troubled. He'd surprised her, sleeping in his bed. And kissed her, fondly. 

 

And looked very, very surprised when she told him. What she was expecting.

 

There were fresh roses on his desk when she came in to eat lunch with him the next day. And she knew, though she could hardly recall Brendan beyond the shape of his face and the color of his hair...and his eyes had been blue like skies, she'd said lovingly, but they hadn't really, she couldn't recall why. She knew that Alistair would still be able to describe Her so well that a stranger would recognize Her and an artist could capture Her, though he had no portrait of his lost love. 

 

Zevran came to see him when she started to show and the excitement and rumors spread. For once, he was not charming to her. Not until he'd spoken with Alistair, privately. 

 

They shared a dance that evening and he'd surprised her when he told her, you are lucky your king loves you, inamorata.

 

He does not.

 

He looked at her with cold golden cat eyes even as he whirled her and laughed. If he did not love you, oh queen, you would be yet another queenly traitor that I would deal with, as She asked.

 

And she declined to dance again. Alistair patted her hand and this time when he kissed her goodnight, she stood very still, considering. It felt like love. But, also, it didn't.

 

And then trouble came over the sea, from a place called Kirkwall. 

 

Trouble was small and light boned and curvy with sly and haunting eyes and sharp blades. She came complete with her own handsome prince and their court of oddly merry and strangely fell characters. Elves and a dwarf and thieves and mages. On a pirate queen's ship, of all things.

 

Alistair's eyes would follow her swaying figure, time to time, but there was no doubt to who she belonged. Her prince had a zealot's gleam when he looked at his Hawke, though he was as gentle a man as Deirdre had ever met. Hawke wore his fervor as her right and a smile that reminded Deirdre of Zevran's terrible one when anyone approached her prince less than meekly. 

They spoke each others names as though they prayed, though he was a devout man. And Deirdre realized that it wasn't just Hawke that drew Alistair, it was _them_ and their possibilities. He offered to host their wedding, though the prince declined. Not yet time. Alistair shook his head. I hope they don't regret it he told her.

They had been to Amaranthine to deal with a problem and would move on just before spring. Until then, they were at the king's disposal, if he had need of their....oh, sly wicked eyes...talents. Alistair smiled at them fondly and handed them a small stack of worries suited to such talent.

Deirdre was occasionally disconcerted to find Hawke’s eyes on her, observant of her growing awkwardness. It was never unfriendly and more than once, the woman aided her. She didn’t want to be afraid of Hawke, who was kind, but... The prince watched her, too. And Deirdre was more understanding of the longing in his eyes. 

Cross my palm with silver, said the pirate queen. And cackled. A boy. To match the Vael girl, one day. Raise him hot-blooded and fierce or she'll run him ragged. She palmed the coin and it re-appeared in Deirdre’s cleavage an hour later. Wrapped in a note. But I'm no seer, it read.

She watched them practice in the tilting ground one fine wintry day. Hawke whirled and disappeared in her sister's smoke and flame, orbiting around the gleaming pivot of the lyrium marked elf. The prince and the dwarf traded turns raining down retribution and smart quips. The elvhen mage that drew Alistair's eye only to make him frown twined vines and sent men sleeping. The pirate danced and taunted. Only Hawke was silent, a ghost who dropped her enemies as though the wind had slain them. The king's guard went down in minutes, the blunted weapons charmed to stun.

Hawke collected an arrow and drew one crimson edged feather across her lips before she handed it back, earning the prince's lingering focus. Deirdre was not particularly surprised to find them later, her back against the wall of the library, hands pinioned above her while he wrung whispered ecstasy from her lips with his own.

They had no fear of one another's strengths, it seemed. 

It was a winter of storms. There were rumors that the Divine was considering Marches. A reconquest of wavering loyalties.

It surprised her when Alistair breathed a sigh of relief to see them sail. He had enjoyed their company, he said. But they were too intense for his day to day comfort and such as they were prone to trouble. He gave a rub to her wide belly and a kiss to her temple. Better to marry and learn to avoid it. 

Yet, there were the roses on his desk. And the ring on his finger. And the longing in his eyes as he looked across the distance to the west.

When her pains came, early in the summertide, they took her by surprise. But he held her hand, even when the women and the healers tried to shoo him away. Even though he looked scared, himself. It was possible there was more than one kind of love.

He was yet her hero.


End file.
